JAB WE WET

Imtiaz Ali’s Jab We Met is another re-hash of DDLJ(Shahrukh+Kajol) with some scenes scraped in from Pyar toh hona hi tha(Ajay Devgun+Kajol~French Kiss) to tie up the loose ends and bring the insipid drama to an end. What speak of story or characters, even the costumes and camera angles are the same. Wohi sarson ke kheton mein phudakti hui kudi aur unke beech mein baitha banjo bajata hua apna reluctant raajkumar. Its been ten years since DDLJ was released and which great film doesn’t deserve a few deferential remakes ? Ali’s strategy can be gauged from the fact that the title was picked from an SMS competition and then positioned to target the teens who are tapping in Hinglish now but were still in their nappies when the original was released. Get the talk-of-the-town couple into a film and what do we have? Voila! You get- Jab We Wet.
If Shahid Kapoor is a reduced xerox of Shahrukh and bears one tenth of his talent and charisma then the runaway tart Kareena is twice as large as Kajol and ten times as irritating. Needless to say, he looks like her chota bhai instead of she looking like his lugai. As better sense would dictate, the bechara boy tries to keep safe distance from her after bumping into her in a running train and having to stick to her for the sake of developing some chemistry and keeping the story going. Kareena Kapoor’s antics in first twenty minutes of the film are admittedly interesting but how long can u blow one measly strip of bubblegum before it bursts and sticks to your cheeks like nosey goo? The chalk and cheese duo keep meeting and parting by chance for two hours that zips back and front over a time period of an year to justify the impact that gems like ’Tum mujh par line mar rahe ho?’ have on a young bairag industrialist (Shahid Kapoor).
JBW has precious little going for it apart from one superhit Shreya Ghosal song (Yeh Ishq hai...jannat dikhai ) and more scratch-beneath-the-surface-proof of the degeneration of Bollywood’s precocious genes. Shahid Kapoor isn’t a phati-chaddi patch on his father(watch Pankaj Kapoor’s Dharam) and Kareena Kapoor doesn’t even have to look that far back. Her sister Karishma was dignity and poise compared to her-even when swinging from Govinda’s technicolour Taanga in-‘ Maine cycle se ja raa tha-tumhe paidal se aa rahi thi.’
Time for a nappy change, perhaps.

HALLA BOL -SAFDAR HASHMI HAAZIR HO

Rabble rouser Raj kumar Santoshi who had lost some ground with a few lacklustre films(Chinatown,Family,Lajja) regains a part of it with Halla Bol – albeit in the same jarring vein as his early films( Ghayal, Damini ,Ghatak ). HB has its heart in its right place but its 20 minutes too long and 200 Decibels too loud.
It starts off as a reprising Madhur Bhandarkar’s super-cynical Page-3 and then latches onto two separate but related stories from the past to bear redemption for its sold-out superstar-Sameer Khan (Ajay Devgun). The first is the citizens’ vigilante~ Jessica Lal murder case and the second is the lesser known gangster slaying of Commie Street theatre activist Safdar Hashmi that not many outside the world of niche Indian theatre know about.
Ajay Devgun(in a thinly disguised personification of Shahrukh Khan) rises up from the streets to the dizzying heights of Bollywood and loses sight of everything along the way-his ideals, morals, even his family and the man he used to be. Then when he inadvertently becomes a witness in a high profile murder case-he turns to his Guru Panjaj Kapoor (Safdar Hashmi~parthasarathi) for some Geeta-vaani and guidance on how to stand up for truth and justice.
HB is bound to be an uncomfortable film for upwardly mobile multiplex audiences but may do well in non-metro centres that are still receptive towards
80’s style cliched-socialist messages & tedious moral posturing against the establishment, its cunning politicans and scheming top-cops.
The film addresses difficult questions about star activism and collective social conscience but fails to make the desired impact because the screenplay changes tone from the farcical to coarse reactionary melodrama-complete with looting, arson, swordfights and unruffled sniggering villians issuing diktats from ‘hedonistic swimming pools’. Real life personalities (including Liquor Barons and New Age Gurus) are quickly painted in shades of black and white to hasten the understanding of the mass subversion of justice and the dialogues seem to be deeply inspired by C-grade Mithun’s ‘Ooty’ potboilers like ‘Jallad’ or ‘Hitler.’
While Ajay Devgun’s already receiving flak for mouthing lines that show his co-stars and the film industry in bad light, Pankaj Kapoor spouts poetry, breathes fire and makes a fine display of his under-rated histrionic abilites in the little screen time that’s allotted to him. If the film’s title is taken from Safdar Hashmi’s slogan then the story should have centred around him. That would have been really worthwhile.

HEAVY FUEL

Anurag (Black Friday) Kashyap’s ‘No Smoking’ is hindi film-noir way ahead of its time. Which is not another way of saying that it is self-indulgent mumbo-jumbo that sacrifices comprehension, logic and a corroborative plot at the altar of superficiality.
Smoking as an abhorrent & destructive indulgence is taken as the moot point of argument between morality, righteousness and social responsibility on one hand and individualistic freedom of choice on the other (maimed one). What begins as the cocky John (Kafkaesque) Abraham’s reluctant battle to quit his addiction at the nagging of his wife (Ayesha Takia) and the coaxing of his freshly liberated squint-eyed pal (Ranbir) quickly turns into a nightmare from the deep dungeons of hell. K goes down to meet Paresh Rawal (Shri Baba Bangali of Sealdah) at his no-retreat Prayogshala and is forced into signing an agreement (tome) to the effect that he wishes to quit smoking. K acts irreverent, stubborn, incredulous and is outright disobedient at the apparent omnipotency of the Baba but is forced to fall in line when the default penalties start to come true. As part of his ‘treatment’, he loses his hearing, friends, brother, wife and finally his soul; that last treasured possession that defined his existence. His astitva finally dissolves in a pink ghoulish soul-soup. But then, wasn’t it his soul that had compelled him to do as he pleased? Not have to listen to anybody?
At the film’s promo-events, John spoke naively about the film being a timely message to the youth about the dangers of smoking but what unfolds is a tangential tale. Stephen King's Quitters Inc ' inspired' No Smoking is replete with black humour, delusional fantasies, paranoia (of the kind caused by withdrawal symptoms) and retributive gore attached to the difficulties of extreme choice. There are excesses like cartoon thought blurbs, quirky references (infidel castro castrated cigars) and an over exposed yellow, grease stained rusty underground atmosphere that’s too reminiscent of C grade torture flicks like Saw and Hostel.
No Smoking’s production values are top notch and out of sync with its target audience. There isn’t any. What target audience can a film which starts with quotes from Plato, Socrates & a Sinatra blurb and then ends with a mandatory Bipasha Basu item number have?
Therein lies NS’s identity crisis and its predictably short life. But here’s a niche film that dares to burn new ground. It provokes without closing its loops and rebukes without passing judgment.

STARRY STARRY NIGHT

In Taare Zameen Par, Aamir Khan plays a sensitive, poised, junior school art teacher who sports a rolex watch, ubercool gelled hair( that’s soon imitated by his favourite pupil) and designer casual t- shirts at an ultra-conservative Tie & Blazer Boarding school. Maybe, he should have paid a visit to Shantiniketan(W.B.) or even Baroda for a clearer picture of the vocation of art education( and educators) in our country. In his one hour in front of the camera, the acclaimed method actor looks like anything but an Art teacher and his smart myopic directorial vision makes a fine mockery of the purpose of Art towards self-revelation behind it. But then, that’s ‘pop-realism’ for you. TZP is sensitive, refined cinema only for those recently glutted by Om Shanti Om. It is indigestible for anyone who can tell his Monet from his Manet.
After normal (in-sensitive) teachers respond to the ‘special needs’ of the dyslexic child by rapping him on his knuckles, making him stand outside class everyday and flunking him summa-cum-laude; Aamir appears as the proverbial knight with a shining brush in hand and paints everything in different shades of oxy-moron. He mouths deep philosophies to nine year old boys who’re trying to sketch still-life, quotes from Oscar Wilde in the Principal’s room and convinces a dyslexic child’s parents that academic success is not everything in life. Then, after a lot of sniffing and touching songs, his film climaxes with the buck-toothed brat beating the whole school in an Art competition. The under dog gets his moment of glory. Face it- mister.Success is everything in life. And Art is just another subject that everyone’s trying to excel in.
The film begins with Darsheel’s charming pranks but starts to wear thin and tear after his condition is diagnosed and he is packed off to Boarding School. There on, there is too much water and not enough paint on his paper and Aamir khan tries to mitigate it with strangely dsylexic contradictions of his own.
Art-as Aamir states is ‘a display of emotions.’ What then –is an ‘Art competition?’ A ‘competition of emotions?’ To its credit TZP has wonderfully written (Prasoon Joshi) and picturised songs, a talented child actor (Darsheel Safary ) and radically different subject matter plus some good intentions at its core. But Aamir Khan messes the film up in trying to reconcile his confused philosophy with the larger parameters of mainstream, commercial Bollywood. In trying to make a strong statement, all the characters emerge as stereotyped caricatures and the situations they find themselves in are absurd while trying to be profound. Pray, in what kind of a school are children openly allowed to point fingers at their teachers and openly laugh at them? And what kind of an Art teacher announces an Art competition that he (the TEACHER) himself competes in along with his students? No surprise then-that he emerges with one of the two best paintings(A vibrant wet-on-wet Samir Mondol watercolour).
If you want to see a classic coming-of-age school story go re-watch’ Dead Poets Society’ or even the recent ‘ The History Boys.’ And if its disabilities in the Indian context- then its Koshish (Sanjeev kumar/Jaya ) or Sparsh (Naseer)…